The Winchesters and I
by aliceandluna
Summary: Hello, my name is Alice and this is the story of my life. It wasn't love at first sight, because my family was lying dead then. And, it isn't a happy ending either, because the love of my life is incorrigibly, irrevocably and unconditionally in love with an angel. But, between fighting evil, living alternately in motels and hospitals, and falling in love, I became one of them.
1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER: - Last time we checked, no tree in our gardens produces money, so we still don't own Supernatural, Kripke does. We have just borrowed his lovely characters to play for a brief while. This is our first endeavor to write our very own fanfiction, so, folks, be gentle on us. Read and review. Constructive criticism is welcome.

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Beep Beep…Beep Beep...Beep Beep...

Dean's heart monitor called out in a steady staccato rhythm.

I couldn't believe that Dean Winchester was consciously, voluntarily lying on the pristine white hospital bed without knocking away the jumble of machines around him, in a desperate attempt to escape the premises and hunt down the next evil thing he could get his hands on, bless its wicked soul.

Dean was a sore sight. With his sickly pallor and broken eyes, he was difficult to even look at. Tubes were hooked to his limp arms and throat. The heart monitor's recurrent report was the only thing that suggested that he was still alive. And, that he was staring into an unknown oblivion, his gaze transcending the barren whiteness of the room.

It was as if Dean was imprisoned in his shattered body and his helpless shrieks were manifested in the incessant, unchanging, mechanical call of the damned monitor.

I left the room.


	2. Beginning

Alice Katherine was born in the year 1984, an accident - a result of lowered inhibitions caused by imbibing copious amounts of alcohol coupled with a lack of proper protection. Abigail was a British heiress who had rebelled against Daddy's wishes and fled to America. She was looking for a good lay that night at the bar, but she didn't want to be a mother. She didn't even know the name of her one-night stand. Abigail was a nice girl who dreamt big. She really didn't want to end a life before it even started, but, she did want to be Hollywood's most famous actress. An illegitimate child would just stand in the way of her overweening ambitions, which weren't fulfilled, though.

Tucked in a warm pink blanket, a baby girl was found on the cold concrete stairs of St. Mary's Orphanage by Mother Eleanor.

She was christened Alice Katherine by Mother Superior.

The routine of the monotonous life in the orphanage was broken when the children started falling ill to an unexplained ailment. The diagnosis revealed mysteriously compromised immune systems and all the doctors who came, failed to provide a cure for it. When death loomed large over the orphanage like an ominous black cloud, a second-hand grey '73 Ford F100 roared to a stop in front of St. Mary's. The owner was a hunter by the name of Jeffrey Gordon Coleman, with a deceptively sweet appearance and a steadfast determination to decimate as many evil creatures before finally, inevitably joining his dead wife and daughter in afterlife. As the Shtriga, assuming the form of Mother Agnes, was draining the last trickle of life out of a 5 year old Alice, Jeffrey shot a series of consecrated iron rounds into the monster's head. Mother Agnes melted into a pool of black, viscous liquid right before little Alice's dumbstruck eyes.

Alice Katherine reminded Jeffrey of his dead daughter so much, it hurt.

It was three days after the fateful night that Alice Katherine, now, Alice Katherine Coleman happily hopped into her adoptive father's grey truck; happy to finally escape the grey confines of the orphanage.

Jeffrey Gordon Coleman was born in 1951 to an average middle class family, and had an average life. He, to the surprise of all his classmates, wooed the beautiful Lillian Davis with wildflowers and clichéd poetry and, finally, on their Prom night, asked her to be his wife. They tied the knot in a small ceremony in the summer of '69. Five years later, Lillian Coleman was heavy and glowing with their first child, Amelia. In the year 1979 they had their second child, Aidan. Jeffrey was a doting father and a loving husband. He also worked hard as a mechanic to put bread on their dinner table.

Their simple, apple-pie life was cut short the night when Lillian's eyes turned black.

The demon possessing Lillian killed the 5 years old Amelia, but, before she could advance on Aidan, Jeffrey put a knife in her heart and through all normalcy in their lives. Bobby Singer, the veteran hunter stormed in through the door and doused the still-alive Lillian in holy water, before exorcising the demon back to Hell by chanting recondite verses of Latin.

Jeffrey was out for blood. He wanted to avenge the death of his family, and Bobby knew that without training and adequate knowledge about the evils that roamed God's green Earth, Jeffrey would certainly end up as monster-fodder. Bobby taught him how to dismantle a gun and put it back together in minutes, and instilled in the young impressionable hunter's mind the importance of salt and iron. After deeming him fit for the job of a hunter, Bobby parted ways.

The next decade passed in a drunken haze of hunting. His mornings were engaged in pouring over the local newspapers for anything paranormal and relentless hunting would follow. At night, after an exhausting day of bloodshed, he would return home to Aidan, immersing himself in the melancholy memories of the house, with a glass in hand.**  
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And finally in 1989, Alice Katherine, the doe-eyed orphan from St. Mary's reminded him of his daughter.


	3. Orphan

After Lillian died, Father spent the rest of his life living in the past. He was so dangerously engrossed in getting some sort of peace by killing all and every monster in his vicinity that he forgot about us. He was so busy playing God that he neglected his own children. In a way, Dean and I are like kindred spirits, with the absent fathers. But I never had it in my heart to hold Dad responsible for the way we were raised. After experiencing the horrors that I have, I can irrefutably conclude that ignorance might be bliss, but, it is likely to get you killed, in the most gruesome of manners. I'd much rather take the upbringing of a warrior that Aidan and I had, than choose to live a vulnerable apple-pie life. Dad did his bit, by teaching us to be afraid of the dark, because unimaginable evils lurk where your eyes don't see. But, I really wish, in rare moments of reminiscence and regret that he took us to a baseball game once in a while, or was there long enough for us to share what we did in school that day. He was always, always away on hunting trips. Dad, to us, was a scarce presence in our lives and in his best moments, he was only slightly tipsy.

Aidan raised me. Although older than me by only 5 years, Aidan assumed the responsibility of being my guardian and my protector. While Dad was tirelessly obliterating a significant monster population, it was with Aidan that I killed my first mockingbird and shared my first celebratory beer. It was Aidan who taught me to hotwire a car, any car whatsoever, and clicking all sorts of locks with paperclips and credit cards. He taught me how to hustle at pool and cheat in poker games. We played poker every night for a month till I was giving Aidan a run for his money, literally. Aidan drilled in me the importance and basics of research, and call it Aidan's paranoia or his chronic need to keep me safe, I started carrying salt and holy water in my back pack since I was 8.

I had it easy, because I had Aidan. Aidan had no one but his drunk, ignorant father to look after him and teach him the ropes of the game.

Aidan was a very sincere, dedicated student who paid attention in class and learned everything that was taught. Even after a physically draining training session, he would pour over whatever big, fat Latin books he borrowed (read, stole) and with his characteristic steadfast tenacity, attempt to memorize all the nuances of the dead language.

It was with him that I went on my first hunt – a Wendigo in Pine Island, Minnesota. I saved a little redheaded girl with a sweet bucktoothed smile that day. I was never prouder of myself. I also experienced my first failure on a hunt with Aidan. We were hot on the trail of a lone werewolf when a woman was caught in the fray and got bitten. We did what was right. We had to kill her before she could change. I cried that day.

We used to have a 'gourmet' dinner every day – a packet of chips as the hors d'eoeuvre, greasy beef hamburgers with a side serving of oily, deep fried French fries, and if we were feeling particularly extravagant, we'd share a bar of chocolate as dessert and a bottle of cheap beer to wash it down.

But, then that bastard died on me.

Dad, Aidan and I were on a hunt for a vampire who had gone rogue and was carelessly leaving behind a bloody trail of bodies. But, things went horribly wrong. We walked right into an elaborate trap laid by the vampire who caught wind of us following her.

We were knocked unconscious by a blunt force to the back of our heads. In spite of my brain shrieking a refrain, "You cannot pass out now, damn it! Don't pass out now", my mind succumbed to darkness. When I woke up, I found myself bound to wooden posts in a dungeon, dimly-lit by fluorescent light bulbs. I looked around to see, much to my dismay, my brother and father in various states of unconsciousness.

Right before my eyes, the vampire drained Aidan to the last drop. I remember the silent gaze of his glassy eye, inert, unmoving, lifeless; a washed out imitation without the spark.

My father did not experience a quick, merciful and kind death. I watched with a clinical curiosity as the killer sunk its ravenous teeth into my father's carotid and drained him. Dinner was interrupted, though, when a man stormed in with a stake. The way blood was spurting out from the matching holes in my father's neck arrested all my attention and I kept observing the redness of blood painting an abstract picture on the canvas of the floor. Meanwhile, a brief tussle between the man and the vampire was going on. It ended with the beheading of the creature. It laid in a pool of its own dirty blood, as the stranger untied my hands and set me free.

I would never be free though. Free of the memory of my family dying in front of my very own eyes.

I think I heard the man ask if I was okay. I did not reply. I just sat there and stared and stared at my father's corpse, as if it would disappear if I looked away for a second. Maybe it was masochism, or maybe, I just wanted all that to be a nightmare I could wake up from, in the familiarity of my bedroom, and go downstairs to see my father passed out on the couch. My brother would be sleeping peacefully in his room, with the door ajar. The barrel of his favorite .357 Magnum would peek out innocuously from below his pillow.

My brother had fallen over his side. He could be asleep now. I knew better because the lackluster gaze of his dead eyes reminded me that I was an orphan, again.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE : We have used our literary license and changed the physiology of a vampire. They have two sets of retractable fangs, like the more traditional vampires.


	4. Bloodlust

The shock-induced trance was shattered when the stranger started shaking me by my shoulders. I lashed out at him, flaying my legs and arms about. He overpowered me with his heavier body mass and held my arms behind my back. Instinctively, I twisted my upper body and connected a round house kick to his midriff and a right hook to his shapely jaw. He staggered back from the forces of the hits, but collected himself before he could fall flat on his ass. He gaped at me with a curious countenance, realizing that I was no damsel-in-distress.

"Um...I'm sorry?" I stuttered.  
"All is forgiven." He replied, his eyes alight with curiosity.

A groan coming from the side broke the awkward silence. The hairs on my neck stood up.

I rushed to my father's side and called out "Daddy" with a desperate fervor. He groaned again.

"Water!" I shouted.

I got no reply.

"Get me some water, damn it" I turned back as I repeated the demand. But, the man stood still. I was going to shout it again, when he started running at me. My father had bolted upright and was staring at me with undisguised bloodlust in his hungry, red eyes. I stood there, my feat fixed to the ground, all willingness to fight back draining out. I felt a pair of strong hands pulling me away.

My father stumbled back and gazed at me, horrified at his own actions.

"Ally..." He croaked out, in a broken whisper. A juxtaposition of contrasting emotions flitted across the eyes of the monster that my father had become. Remorse, guilt, self-accusation, grief contrasted the  
raw, unbridled thirst for human blood. His blood-red eyes gazed into my amber ones. My heartbeat increased and I knew he could hear each thump. An uninhibited wildness took over his features. And, in the next instant, he was wrecked with such staggering shame that I had to look away.

The man assumed a protective stance before me, pulling me behind his big frame. He wielded his bloodied stake like a sword in front of him.

"Alice, I'm sorry, for everything. You've always taken care of me, when I should have been the one to look after you. I failed, Alice...But, please, kill me." Daddy's voice was heavy with emotions.  
I refused to look at my father. I stared at my dirty feet instead.

"Alice, please, look at me." He implored.  
"Dad…"

"Alice, please, free me." And, those were the last words that my father ever said to me. With that, he looked down, defeated and lost.

Average teenage girls receive everything from chocolates, to flowers, to cars on their birthdays. But, on my 'sweet' sixteenth, my father had gifted me his prized, rusty machete. And, it was the best present I could have wished for, so I thought at the time. But, now, as I recovered my machete lying at a distance, it felt so heavy in my hands. My hands shook and I really wished, no, prayed that I would wake up from the nightmare.

"Alice, you don't have to…" the stranger started saying.  
"No." I interjected brusquely.

The hunting business is really hard and cruel. Emotions only get you killed. A good hunter never feels and finishes her job quickly, cleanly and without remorse, because, you wear guilt like shackles on your feet. That is why I did. I stopped feeling, as I severed my father's head. I did not hear his pained gasp. I did not feel his blood on my hands. I did not feel my tears.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE : In our story, it takes around 10-15 minutes to complete your transformation into a vampire. Also, the change can be caused when a prey is not drained completely.


	5. Introductions

"Look…" Dean trails off.  
"Distract me, please." I beseeched to the green-eyed man, trying to hold myself together.  
"I have a stupid brother who is stupid."  
"That did not make any sense." I croaked through my tears.  
"He's not really stupid, though. He's a geek, and mighty intelligent too. He came top of the class every year in school." Pride colored his speech.

I thought of the brother I lost today.

The man looked apologetic, maybe because he caught the brief look of utter anguish fleeting on my face, before I suppressed it with vulnerable neutrality. I wiped the tear tracks with the back of my dirty hands. A voice at the back of my head, which sounded suspiciously like Aidan's, urged me to thank my savior. I took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm the tempest in my mind and soul.

"Thank you." I said, simply.

He extended a hesitant hand towards me, with a cautious look on his face. Perhaps he thought that I would lash out at him again. I shook it gratefully, because, even though I did not know this man, I was thankful that I wasn't alone.

"Sorry, I got your hands dirty with blood." I apologized impassively.  
"No big deal."  
"I really appreciate you saving me."  
"It's my job."  
"Yeah…"  
"You're a hunter? You act like one."  
"Yeah" I straightened my back. What he said was right. I'm a hunter. I need to not feel. Focus, Alice!  
"I'm Dean Winchester. "  
"Oh, you're a Winchester? I'm Alice Coleman. That man you see, the one I killed, is my father, Jeffrey Coleman. And, my brother, Aidan…" My voice choked on emotions, before I could finish the sentence.

"I understand."  
"No, you don't. You don't understand any part of it. And, don't you pretend to." I saw red.  
"Alice, I didn't mean it like that. I have a serious case of foot in mouth. Please."  
"I just lost my brother. It is because of me that my Dad is lying dead in a pool of his own blood. I should have planned the hunt better. Maybe, I shouldn't have woken up today!"

Dean Winchester did something absolutely unexpected and wrapped me in a silent hug. I stood stiffly before I finally relaxed in the warm embrace. I couldn't keep the tears at bay anymore.


End file.
